‘Is it good?’
‘It’s great. A bit messy but very delicious.Bagnatmeans “bathed” and this is a bread bun that is bathed in olive oil.’
Angus looked unconvinced of its appeal.
‘But then it’s filled with tuna and hard-boiled eggs,’ Tilly told him. ‘And tomatoes and onion and red capsicum. It’s like a salad Niçoise in a sandwich. It can come with anchovies but they can easily leave them out. And yes, I know tuna is fish but it’s different when it comes out of a can, don’t you think?’
Angus laughed. ‘I totally agree. Except for anchovies. And it sounds like just the thing to eat on a hot day. Not here, though.’
‘No. I know just the place.’
Fifteen minutes later, carrying paper bags that were heavy with the pan bagnatswell wrapped in greaseproof paper so they didn’t leak oil, a handful of paper napkins and some bottles of water, Tilly was delighted to find an empty bench exactly where she wanted one – where they could sit and watch the water mirror in the Promenade du Paillon.
This was a large area paved with pale stones that had dozens and dozens of metal nozzles arranged in a grid, which spurted water at irregular intervals, to varying heights from a low bubble to a high spout and for a range of times. It was impossible to guess where or when the next spout would appear and on a hot summer’s day during school holidays this was heaven for small children. Some tried to run across without getting wet, others ran to each spout to try and touch it or even stand in it before it stopped and shrieked with glee if one suddenly appeared right beside them. Between the bursts that had droplets glittering in the sunshine, a thin layer of water was left on the stones and this created the mirror effect, reflecting the sky and the movement of people.
It was a joyous spectacle, like having a picnic on the edge of a child’s playground or a family gathering. Even teenagers were playing amongst the jets and parents were there, holding babies or the hands of toddlers. The gurgle of water and the laughter was a lovely layer on top of the hum of traffic in the background.
Angus and Tilly had shade from a tree above them and a sandwich that was admittedly drippy and inclined to have bits of tomato or olive or capsicum falling out but tasted far too good for the inconvenience to detract from the pleasure. Tilly had ripped open her paper bag to put over the skirt of her favourite blue dress, with a napkin as extra protection, and she kept her food carefully wrapped in the greaseproof paper as she ate it. Angus leaned forward so that any bits that fell landed on the ground and he was holding the bun with both hands and eating this traditional lunch with enthusiasm.
‘Absolutely banging,’ he told Tilly. ‘The ham baguette we had at the lake was fantastic but I don’t think I’ve ever had a sandwich this delicious in my entire life. I can’t believe it doesn’t even have any mayonnaise in it.’
‘It doesn’t need it with all the oil that’s soaked into the bread.’
‘Maybe that’s why I like it so much. When I was a bairn, and we’d get fish suppers from the chippy on a Friday night, the grease would be dripping out of the bag by the time we got to the door of the shop.’
‘A fish supper?’ Tilly raised her eyebrows.
‘Battered fish and frites. In those days they were wrapped in newspaper and then put in a paper carry bag.’
‘I’ve had fish and chips,’ Tilly told him. ‘Sophie and Luc took me to a pub that serves it here. It was you eating fish that surprised me.’
‘But fish-and-chip fish is different too. It’s nothing like bouillabaisse or… or, oh my God, I once got served a trout with its head still attached. It was looking at me and it was full of bones and it tasted…’
Angus seemed to be having difficulty finding a word that could describe how disturbing the taste had been.
‘Fishy?’ Tilly offered.
‘Aye. Exactly!’ His smile lit up his face and then his breath came out in a sigh that sounded… what? Relieved? Contented? ‘You’re the only person I’ve ever met who understands,’ he added. ‘Fish is only acceptable when it doesn’t tastefishy.’
Maybe it was the smile. Or that sparkle in his eyes. Or perhaps it was that sigh that made Tilly think of how you’d feel if you’d just walked through the door of your home after being away for too long.
Whatever it was, she felt a prickle behind her eyes that came from nowhere. It only took a blink or two to make it go away but the sudden tightness in her throat was harder to swallow. Quietly, Tilly slid the rest of her lunch back into the bag. She wasn’t hungry any longer.
She was a little disconcerted, to be honest. Being in love had always given her moments of happiness that felt like every cell in her body was experiencing a wash of euphoria.
But this was the first time that happiness had – very nearly – made her cry.
17
Tilly told him that the art museum was at the end of the long park where they had just finished eating their lunch.
‘Would you like to see it?’
‘Not really.’ Angus didn’t want to sound like a philistine, but this was his last day in France.
His last day with Tilly.
There had to be better things to do than wander around a gallery looking at paintings or sculpture.
